Clear Skies
by dalfron
Summary: After the events of 2x07. Everybody has their own unique way of dealing with things - sometimes those ways intersect. Probable two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

_Thud thud thud_. _Thudthudthudthudthud_. _Thud thud thudthudthud._

The quiet under Verdant is broken by the dull impact of Oliver's fists against the dummy. Step, strike, duck, breathe, strike again, breathe, _focus. _He isn't himself, not right now – he is a predator. He is the snarl of his teeth and the whoosh of his breath and the pain that sings in his arm where the bullet grazed. It builds to a crescendo as blood pounds in his ears, until his muscles shake with it, until he is nothing but power and rage.

He killed again today. A part of him – this part – almost enjoyed it.

His movements abruptly stop as that realisation sinks in. True, he had no choice but to kill the Count. True, he wishes that he hadn't broken his promise to Tommy. That he hadn't been the monster his friend despised once again. But if he's honest with himself...

When he saw Diggle, lying poisoned and shuddering on the table. When he answered the phone to Felicity, only to hear her muted sobs and a madman's laughter (his chest still tightens in fear at the memory). When that same madman was stroking her hair, caressing her neck. When all that separated her from death was the millimetres between the point of a needle and her throat.

Yes, if he's honest, he wanted to do it. That familiar darkness had been stirring and then it was upon him, summoned by Felicity's cry of pain, and by then he couldn't have changed course if he tried. One arrow would have been enough – pierce the heart and it'll be over in seconds – but for some reason once that first arrow flew, he felt like he couldn't stop. He shot another. And another. He wanted him gone, dead, wiped out. He wanted it to be by his hand.

Then the Count fell through the window with a gurgle and the darkness retreated, satisfied. It had claimed its prize and enabled Oliver to do what he had to – protect her. Protect the city. (He felt a jolt of surprise that his mind listed her first... and then another when he realised it had been that way for longer than he could remember).

He had thought he could honour Tommy's memory by driving out the darkness, even the advantage it gave him. But if tonight showed him anything, it was that he would never be truly light and whole and... good again. The island had robbed him of that, and let in demons that would never leave.

He remembers Felicity's bound hands and quiet whimpers, and muses that it might not be a bad thing. Better to lose himself to demons than to lose the people he loves.

(_Loves_? He did just think that, didn't he?)

* * *

He's been in the lair for an hour, maybe two, when he hears the soft click of the concealed door. Snatching his bow from the desk – it's been a stressful day and he's only slightly on edge – he checks the time display on the sleeping computers. Almost 5AM. Still dark and far too early to expect the usual company. He's about to assume the worst when he hears the jingle of falling keys, a soft curse, and Felicity appears in his view.

"Felicity, what are you doing here so early?"

The newly picked up keys fall out of her hands again as she jerks in surprise, letting out a strangled yelp. He tries so hard not to find it endearing, to keep the beginnings of a grin from tugging his mouth, but as usual he fails.

"Okay, we need to have another talk about you just appearing out of nowhere like that," Felicity groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We're not all ninjas, and we don't all have freaky ninja senses. Not that you're a freak – I mean, everyone's a bit freaky," she stilled, and a blush started climbing her cheeks. "I – don't mean freaky like _that, _unless you are, which... is..."

God help him, he can't bring himself to interrupt. He's just basking in that familiar mix of awe and amusement that can only be brought on by Felicity Smoak's train of thought crashing off the rails.

"Which is... none... of my business." She clears her throat and shakes her head. "Starting over. Felicity Smoak; nice to meet you."

It takes a moment for him to recover, to calm the mirth in his chest and place a hand on her arm(studiously ignoring the tingle it causes and the urge to run a thumb over the fabric). "It's 5AM. Couldn't you sleep?" He had meant to tell her to take the day off – as much for his benefit as for hers. Her being safe and warm at home sounded all too appealing to him after what happened.

Her face darkens, the faint, almost ever-present suggestion of a smile fading away. He misses it as soon as it goes.

"No," she looks away briefly, chewing her lip. "I thought – I never considered the security cameras at Queen Consolidated. The vigilante taskforce is going to be all over the office as we speak, and sooner or later they're going to turn up with a warrant for the tapes. _Unless_ a certain star IT girl-turned-PA wiped the data."

The joke feels hollow, with none of the energy she usually has. She's putting on an act of happiness for him. He feels a wash of melancholy that the tables have turned.

"You don't have to do that. Diggle or I could–"

This time, he thinks he might just see that spark in her smile. "Do either of you know how to delete data from a certain very security-conscious company's servers without leaving a trail, while simultaneously making it look like it was deleted when a third party – in this case the Arrow – hacked the system?"

Touché. "I'm getting pretty competent with Windows 7 now," he offers. "I found the start bar yesterday."

She laughs, and it's like a balm.


	2. Chapter 2

There's nothing else for him to do here. He's trained, he's cleaned and maintained his gear, he's taken stock of their makeshift infirmary. He should be thinking of heading to the office soon, but the reason he hasn't left yet is still just visible behind the monitors, tapping away on the keys.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, he hasn't heard the tap of keys in a while. How long does it take to wipe footage, anyway? She'd done it before in half the time.

He re-stacks the weights he's been organising for no particular reason, and walks towards the desk.

The tension in her jaw grows more visible as he nears her; the quick flash of fear in her eyes, the way she absently rubs at her wrist. His eyes follow the motion of her hands, and he sees the dark mottles of a bruise where the zipties cut at her skin. He feels ill.

"Felicity?"

It's quiet, soothing, but she jumps all the same as he walks around to face the screens. "Are you okay?"

It takes longer than he likes for her to answer, the words riding on the back of a sigh. "Yeah. It was just... a pretty unpleasant experience. To say the least. This is the last existing copy but I'm – I don't even know why I'm watching this. Catharsis? Masochism? Stupidity, maybe."

On the displays are the camera feeds from around the office and conference room. The building is dark, shadowy, it even _feels_ sinister. His helplessness from earlier echoes back once again as he sees a slightly-pixelated Felicity being hauled into the conference room by the Count, who stops to tease a hand down the curve of her waist. Slowly. Intimately.

Oliver's fists coil at his side. He wants to ask if she has to watch this, because he certainly isn't having any fun reliving it, and learning about what happened when he _wasn't_ there is something he's been actively trying to avoid. But he sees the set of her jaw – like this is something she has to do – and he keeps his mouth closed. He knows from experience that people deal with trauma in strange ways. For some reason he didn't think facing up to it immediately would be her style, but he's oddly proud that it is. His Felicity is remarkable in more ways than one.

(_His_?)

So they watch together. He wheels over another chair and sits, close enough to touch, near enough to avoid. An anchor if she needs one. She's keeping her distance for now, rigidly maintaining her personal space. Given the horror story playing out on the screen, he isn't surprised.

The time between the Count's call to Oliver and Oliver's subsequent appearance seems to crawl. The Count circles Felicity, runs his fingers along her collarbones, traces the the gun under her jaw, stoops to whisper in her ear. Did he really take that long? He took too long to get there, left her alone with a nightmare.

An apology almost falls from his mouth, but he catches it when she stirs. She's sitting tall in her chair beside him - as tall as tall gets when you're Felicity's height – and she looks... resilient. She's scared by what she's seeing, what she's remembering, but she's looking it dead in the eye. She was right. He should really stop being surprised when she impresses him, because these days it's becoming a near constant state.

After an age, another figure enters the frames. The Arrow – or rather, Oliver Queen. Exposed in both his identity and in his weaknesses.

Felicity shifts her forearm ever so slightly, til it's just barely brushing against is.

It's over quickly from there. The Count gets one – two – three – arrows in the chest, and crashes through the window. Almost too quiet to detect, Oliver hears Felicity breathe out.

Before he can gather the right words to ask if she's okay, if he can do anything, if she knows how glad he is she's alive - because really, when those syringes were at her throat, it felt curiously like his sun was on the verge of falling from the sky - she moves. With a slight nod, and a roll of her shoulders, she's back into her Hacker Pose and expertly removing every digital trace of the footage. "There. It's gone."

She isn't just talking about the data. The finality she pushes into her words is a little too forced, a little too shaky at the foundation, but he lets it slide. For now, he simply gives a nod of confirmation. "It's gone."

Something starts building in his veins, making his fingers sting with the urge to bridge the gap between them, and it would be so easy – she's sneaking glances at him from the sides of her glasses, her own hands tantalisingly close. Her nails are bright, painted robin's-egg blue. The colour of clear skies.

But he still means what he said after Russia. If anything, it's more important than ever. Who knows if the Count told his associates what he discovered about Oliver Queen's personal life? Who knows how far away everyone else is from figuring it out? The people in his life are in enough danger as it is. He can't let himself – he can't introduce any more factors to his relationships. Specifically, this one. He has enemies that show no mercy, and far too much to lose already. If the stakes were any higher...

So for now he tells himself what he's been repeating since she shattered his gloomy seclusion on the island, breaking through the clouds with her smile and irate demand for coconuts: he's not too far gone. He can stop these feelings before they start. Funny, but try as he might, the mantra rings just a little bit more hollow than before.

Not for the first time, she rescues him. "I guess I should go to work. I don't wanna be late - my boss is a real jerk."

It hits him all over again as he smiles just how glad he was to have her on his side – this brilliant, awkward, witty blonde mystery. "Well, tell him I said to lay off. He doesn't realise how lucky he is to have you."

Teeth dig sharply into his tongue, but it's too late to take it back now. He's paddling his feet in treacherous waters – and yet he can't resist one final touch of her arm. Friendly, he convinces himself. "I'll see you at work, Miss Smoak."

* * *

On the way into Queen Consolidated, he sees a coffee mug in a store window. It's sky blue – robin's-egg blue, you could say.

When Felicity gets to work, it's filled with freshly made coffee and sitting on her desk.


End file.
